“Where’s that blooming continuity you were to do for me?” she demanded irritably.
“I’m still evolving it, most beautiful of women——”
“Gentle liar, you’ve never given it another thought. I suppose you can’t help gazing at people as though you mean what you say, can you, Barry?” And, to the man seated beside her—“You remember Mr. Annan, Albert?”
Albert Wesly Smull got up—an elaborately-groomed man of ruddy, uncertain age. His expression, always verging on a smile, might have been agreeable if less persistent. He had a disturbing habit of smiling rather fixedly at people out of small, red-brown eyes.
He knew Annan by sight, it appeared. They shook hands politely.
“I used to see you in the Patroon’s Club,” said Mr. Smull. “I know your aunt very well,” he added with his sanguine smile.
“Probably better than I do,” said Annan. “I’m socially disinherited, you know.”
Smull’s reddish-brown eyes clung to Annan like two gadflies.
“Your aunt is a very wonderful old lady,” he said; “—a great power in New York under the old régime—” His eyes began to move, leaving Annan and turning toward the window where people were grouped.
“The grand dame is done for in this town,” remarked Betsy. “She’s as important in these days as a stuffed Dodo.”